


the jfk pegging erotica we never knew we needed

by TheSubtextMachine



Category: Clone High
Genre: F/M, Fuckbuddies, Himbo JFK (Clone High), It is just porn, Light BDSM, Pegging, Smut, catboy maid jfk, i wrote this in like 2 hours in a surge of inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27249874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSubtextMachine/pseuds/TheSubtextMachine
Summary: jfk in a catboy maid outfit, basically
Relationships: JFK/Joan of Arc (Clone High)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 161





	the jfk pegging erotica we never knew we needed

**Author's Note:**

> i took it off anon because i read it over and actually liked it so,,,, sorry people who subscribe to me for other content

JFK doesn't exactly know how he got here.

Well, he drove to Joan's house for this, but like... metaphysically _here_.

He is, as the kids say, getting pegged, and the lace of the maid outfit he ordered online is swaying against his legs, and his cat ear headband is threatening to come loose with every passionate thrust, and he's not exactly sure how he got from feeling chicks up in the back seat of his car to begging a small-titty goth girl to go harder. The weirdest part is that he's fucking loving it.

It started as a joke, he thinks. Some meme on Joan's finsta about catboy maids, and then Ghandi tagged him in the comments, and now he's getting his back blown out. That's a reasonable enough progression, right? After all, like, half of this kinky shit that he started doing began after Joan let him follow her finsta, a surprising amount of which was just horny posting. JFK didn't know that girls were even allowed to post horny shit on their finstas, but he figured that Joan was probably an exception. She was an exception to a lot of things. 

-

The horny posting turned kinky shit that JFK had no idea he was into started even before the catboy thing, with a meme post simply captioned "my GOD what i wouldnt do to just get eaten tf out", and, well... JFK wasn't the type to turn down a possible hookup with a hottie. 

And, sure, JFK was a lot of things: an idiot, a slut, and a bunch of other things, but he damn sure wasn't an inconsiderate lover, which meant that when Joan wanted oral, she was going to get that high quality head. She deserved it.

She was also pretty good at receiving it, considering the way that she gave him a little throw pillow to kneel on as she sat on the bed, naked legs splayed and whining as JFK went to town. There was something calming about it for him, if he was being honest. No popularity, no fights, no making his parents proud- all there was in his world was him, the hands rooted in his hair, and the way that Joan would whisper "fuck" every time he ran the tip of his tongue up her clit. It was nice.

Every once in a while, though, the hand in his hair would tighten, and that, weirdly enough, kind of did it for him. Something about the sharp ache of it, always getting sharper and more intense as Joan's legs began to shake... it was different. 

"Hey, uh," he said, pulling away after an especially tough tug, "Is that a 'JFK, stop' tug, or like, an 'I'm close' tug?" Considerate Lover 101, he thought, feeling hyper aware of the wetness still on his lips and Joan looking down at him with a look in between wrecked and sardonic.

"Jack, you know I came, like, twice already, right?" she asked, eyebrows crinkled in a way that was... cute. Weird. Either way, JFK's mouth was falling open.

"What? Is that, er, what the shaking was about?" he asked, genuinely unsure. Girls lied about orgasms sometimes, right? Well, Joan wasn't the lying sort, but still.

"Yeah, doofus. Now get back to work." She tapped the back of his head, and his toothy smile seemed to come of its own accord.

"Aye aye captain, and, uhh... pull harder. If ya want."

"Like this?" Joan asked, before pulling with enough force to send JFK careening sideways, and then back up again the other direction. He felt like a puppet. It was... kinda hot.

"I er... yeah. Like that," he said, before diving back in.

-

There's something about having a goth girl's strapon in your ass that's sort of life affirming, JFK discovers, and he can kind of understand why girls go so bonkers for it. Not the ass part, necessarily, but like... the dick part. Yeah.

When Joan angles just right and finds his prostate, he can swear that he just _melts_ , like... yeah. There it is. Mission accomplished, it's real and it _rocks_.

And, of course, Joan is making it ten times better just by being there, and he thinks he might be falling in love, but that could just be the cock in his ass, so... it's kind of a wild ride. Especially since she's going bonkers herself, driving in harder and harder and staring at the way he's wrapped around the sparkly-pink dildo that Cleo got her for a gag gift. Every once in a while, she'll give his ass a good slap, just to make him feel a bit more owned, and the sensory overload is hitting him in the best way, especially as a fond memory of how that little discovery came about comes to his head.

-

"How does it feel, being caked up in the front and the back?" Joan asked him one day, a smirk on her face as she leaned against her locker. Things had been different since the Eating Out Incident, but without labels, of course. Joan was still gaga over Abe (probably), and JFK didn't do the "one bitch at a time" thing (probably), so it was just a weird little "friends who check each other out and hooked up that one time" thing. Totally.

"I er, uh... what do you, uh, mean?" he asked, eyes wide and confused. "Were you, uh... checking me out?"

"Yeah," she scoffed, as if it was nothing. "You didn't even take off your pants last time."

"Was I supposed to?"

"I wouldn't have been opposed," she sighed, before leaning in. "And I've also been- I mean, your _ass_ , man, I've been having, like, prophetic dreams about it."

JFK had no idea what _that_ meant, but he had the vaguest suspicion that it meant he was gonna get laid, and he wasn't about to complain about that.

Prophetic dreams, he found out, entailed being manhandled into the janitor's closet for a sloppy make out session, marked by lipstick marks on his neck and Joan taking two fistfuls of his derriere all the while. He could kind of understand the whole thing about twerking- there was something fun about it all, something sexy about the recognition of it. He _was_ caked up, goddammit, and having a goth girl slap his ass, even through the muffle of his khakis, was rewarding.

"This, er, should be a regular thing," said JFK as they shuffled out of the janitors closet some time later.

"Sure."

-

"So, uh, am I supposed to meow when I'm done, or...?" JFK asks, in between keening moans and pants. Joan has found her angle, and she's been exploiting it for all its worth.

"If you feel like it," says Joan, and even though he's on all fours facing away from her, he can totally imagine her face right now, her eyes sharp and laser focused. She gets like this sometimes, when she's a woman on a mission. She brings the same determination to lots of things like this, whether it's leaving as many hickeys as possible before he has to go into the locker room to take his shirt off, or when she's riding him. It's one of the things he really likes about being around her, if he's being honest.

He forgets the question pretty quickly when Joan leans forwards and does the good ol' wrap around, cleanly emptying his already spacious brain.

-

The locker room talk was weird, especially when the hickey thing started. Joan likes marking him up, and he likes the surprised looks he get when he inevitably removes his shirt. What he doesn't like so much are the questions, even if he is, by bro code, required to answer them. 

"Listen, I know that she's my best friend and that this could be awkward if it were anybody else asking, but you need to tell me how good she is in bed," said Abe. JFK didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing, but he also didn't like the sound of being considered "whipped", so JFK just shrugged and went for the vague route.

"She's goth, so... yeah. She's good. She's got, like, a gorilla grip coochie," he said, inciting a wave of "oohs" and "ahhs".

"Good for you, man, even if Cleo is, like, totally better," said Abe, as if it was obvious.

"I, er uh... I've had both," said JFK with a scratch to the back of the neck. "And, er, let's just say only one of them had the, uh, balls to punch me in bed when I asked so, er... have fun with your broad, I guess. If your girl won't make you crawl across the floor just to, er, eat her out? You're losing."

-

"You look wrecked," says Joan as she flips him over, laying him on his back with his erection waving in the air like it just doesn't care. She looks like a vision, pink strap sitting proudly on her hips as she looks down at him, and JFK has the sinking feeling that he really wants her to be his girlfriend. Huh.

"I've been this close," he holds up his shaky hand to make a a corresponding gesture, " _This close_ to, uhh, cumming for the past 10 minutes. You can bet your ass that I'm, er, wrecked."

She smiles at him, something sweet and genuine, and bends down to fix the headband. "If you ask really nicely, I'll let you."

Then, a thrust. A stroke. JFK, for a moment, doesn't understand how Abe was even capable of turning her down. 

"I er... I'm your, uh, catboy maid. I'm at your service, Joan, I er... I'll do anything for you, you know that," he says, and it feels a bit too true, a bit too honest, but she's thrusting and it feels _good_ , too good to keep his cool. "Please, please, _please_ ," he whines, and the hand on his cock is moving fast.

There was a thrust, then "I'm not," then another thrust, "Convinced," and another. _Fuck_.

"Please," he whines, broken and honest. "Please let me."

She's moving faster, bent closer to him so her lips are near his, and he feels so far gone, that when she whispers "Do it," it manages to work. He shoots his load about as hard as he ever has, and he feels almost like his brain comes straight out of his dick with how hard the nut is. Jesus _fuck_ , goth girls are next level, he thinks. Then she pulls out of him and rolls onto her back, so they're laying side by side. He's in his soiled maid outfit, her in nothing but a strap. 

"Hey, er, Joan?" he asks, after a long moment of them catching their breath.

"Yeah?"

"We should, like, totally go on a date," he says, heart pounding. He's never been more sure of asking a girl out, a benefit of his post-nut clarity, but her response feels life or death for him.

"You're really asking me that while you're dressed as a catboy maid?"

"Er, yeah. Is that a no, or?"

"It's a yes. I just think it's funny."

JFK smiles. Nothing bags a chick quite like the catboy maid costume. It's his first time wearing it, sure, but it sure feels like a slam dunk.

**Author's Note:**

> i do take fic requests on my tumblr lmao @thesubtextmachine if ur intrigued


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